Friday 31 July 2009 19.06 EDT
First published on Friday 31 July 2009 19.06 EDT

When he was six Don believed nothing, but knew everything. He knew that when he ran down the pavement outside their house, it was necessary to cup his hands in order to scoop the air behind him and increase his speed. These days he was older and knew that small children are fond of make believe. He also remembered, from one of the few lectures he attended during his far from strenuous attempt at a sociology degree, something about the stages that children go through in their relationship with playground equipment; from frightened awe, through easy familiarity to genial contempt.

Apart from that it seemed to him he knew very little and believed even less. Which left him with what, exactly? Some kind of knowledge allotment in an informational no man's land. What did he grow in this allotment? Whatever the ignorant soil would bear. Passing fancies mainly, a very few firmly rooted fact-carrots or hard-won potatoes, a starvation diet of pseudo-information, picked and clicked from the cyber-universe. On a whim he called Judy. When she answered, he said, "Who is this speaking?"

He thought for a moment and then said "You still haven't answered my question. Who is this speaking?"

There was a pause. "Don, are you seriously deranged? I thought you were just pissing about."

"I just wanted to know if I was the same man you married. After all, you can't step in the same river twice ... "

" ... Or share the same mattress with the same duvet hog. Is that what you're saying?"

"You tell me."

"Maybe I should check you out first. Full body search, that kind of thing. When will you be home?"

"My train gets in to Euston about half six, so if the buses are back to normal after all this horrible business I should be home in time for Corrie. Or whatever else you had in mind."

"We'll just have to see. Won't we?"

The bendy bus had standing room only, so Don took his place on the large circular disk in the middle, the part of the bus he thought of as concertina corner. The motionless figure seated a few feet away to his right looked like some kind of on-board 'Penny for the Guy'. They drew out of the station and turned right by the derelict hospital and then left into Euston Road. Each time it turned Don watched the floor as it swivelled to and fro around the rim of the disk. He enjoyed the feeling of safe danger he always got, as if he was on a playground ride he was slightly too old for, no longer feared but still enjoyed. As he relished this feeling, he looked up to see a small girl, at a safe distance from the rim of the disk, her hand firmly clutched in her mother's, watching him wide eyed as the accordion pleats expanded and contracted to allow the bus to bend.

As Don rode the wild disk, he had to admit to himself that at his age, even he was beyond the easy familiarity and deep into the genial nonchalance phase. Accordingly, he decided to show off a little to his small but fascinated audience, hoping to add entertainment value by not using his hands to steady himself and leaning back into the accordion to see how hard it might bite as the bus negotiated the corners. He was both relieved and slightly disappointed to feel nothing more than a gentle squeeze, such as Judy had given his hand during that very touching French film they had been to see the other week. At this point the girl's mother gave him a slightly pitying look and shepherded her daughter further down the bus away from his malign influence. The girl allowed herself to be dragged along, but kept her face turned in his direction until she was out of sight.

He gently pulled himself free and glanced again at 'Guy Fawkes'. No sign of any movement. The peaked hood of the anorak was still pulled down low, completely covering the face. The head was bent forward nearly to the chest, the hands were thrust deep into the pockets of the navy blue anorak, which was of a slightly shiny plastic material. Don assumed by the bulk of the figure that this was a man, a building worker perhaps, taking a nap after a day's hard work. He could probably recognise his stop in his sleep and would wake at the appropriate time, before stumbling off the bus. However, it struck Don as odd that as the bus tilted, twisted and turned the man did not roll with the lurches, but was in some way bracing himself so as to remain stock-still. He was obviously wide-awake. On the seat next to the man was a black canvas backpack, with a clean white price tag dangling from one of the straps. The detail that Don found most curious was that the man's shoes, light brown suede with a rim around the top front of the foot, like a hand raised pie, were brand new, absolutely box fresh. It was as if both backpack and shoes –and perhaps the anorak, for all Don could tell- had been purchased that day, that hour even. For some reason this last detail made Don feel that he was no longer on the safe danger ride. Could this man be somehow linked to yesterday's incidents? Had the man treated himself to a new outfit so he would look smart in Paradise?

Don wondered if he should have a word with the driver. What could he possibly say?

"You need to get everyone off the bus. That man is wearing brand new shoes so he could be dangerous."

Don was forced to smile at what a ridiculous figure he would cut. Judy would never let him hear the last of it. Far better just to hop off at the next stop, the British Library, and walk the rest of the way home. It was a lovely day, after all.

As he stepped onto the pavement he glanced towards the statue of Isaac Newton in the library forecourt. He was bent forward doing some serious scientific measurements with some callipers. There was a man who knew a thing or two. Yet even the great Newton had likened himself to a boy picking up pebbles on the ocean shore of truth. Maybe even he might have made the wrong call on some box fresh shoes. This was some kind of encouragement.

Don looked up to see his bus in the distance, slowing as it approached the King's Cross stop. He could just about get there if he ran. He was close but not quite close enough. He cupped his hands and scooped the air behind him. Photo finish. The double doors swung open, and Don glimpsed the anorak and saw the price tag swinging from the backpack as 'Guy Fawkes' stepped down and walked swiftly towards the station entrance.

The Coronation Street theme tune and end credits came up. Judy glanced at her watch.

"Not like him to be late. Specially if it's Corrie," she thought.

The phone rang.

"Don, where are you? Caught in the traffic?"

An unfamiliar voice answered. Not one of Don's usual range of party pieces.

"Mrs Campion?"

"Yes."

"Sergeant Hurst here. Metropolitan Police."

Again, a new one she hadn't heard him do before. He'd probably picked it up from The Bill while she wasn't listening. She might as well humour him.

"You got me bang to rights, copper."

There was pause. Then the same voice, which she really didn't recognise.

"You are Mrs Donald Campion?"

"That's right ... Has something happened?"

"I'm sorry to have to tell you that your husband has been involved in an unfortunate incident."